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Chapter Text

Until it's gone

26th November 2024

"I'm proud of you Bucky.", Sam says patting him on his back but Bucky cuts him off; "There is one person I still need to make amends with." Instead, he forces a small nod, his lips pressing into something that might resemble a smile.

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Wakanda, 2017

It had been a few months since he had woken up, well, if you consider coming out of cryo and then relieving everything again and again just so you could get back a sense of control over your own mind, waking up. Felt more like a nightmare.

Wakanda had been good for Bucky, or at least that’s what everyone told him. The quiet, the open space, the chance to breathe without a war raging around him. But it also meant time to think—too much time, too many memories clawing at the edges of his mind, whispering about the blood on his hands and the people he’d hurt, the people he’d failed.

He had a few regular visitors outside of Ayo and Princess Shuri. Most of them were the villagers who came to pick up the kids in the evening when they played with his hair.

He was still recovering. They said that soon he. will be free from the conditioning. The words won't turn him into a killing machine, the soldier, the assassin.

But the fear didn’t leave. What if there was nothing left in him besides the Winter Soldier? What if he was still a ruthless killer beneath everything?

He knows. They didn’t just switch off the person he was and make a new one. The Winter Soldier was efficient, ruthless—because he was Bucky Barnes without the memories. They knew if they wanted the perfect assassin, they couldn’t just wipe him clean. They needed what was already there. A sniper with steady hands. A soldier who didn’t hesitate. Someone who was quick and quiet and invisible. Someone who would follow orders without caring about the odds.

So what if that’s all he is?

What if that’s all he’s good for?

(Because deep down, he knows the truth—Hydra didn’t create the Winter Soldier from nothing. They just took him, stripped him down to the bare bones, and sharpened the parts that mattered. A perfect shot. A ghost in the dark. A weapon that never missed. That wasn’t just the Soldier. That was him.)

Then there was Steve. The doctors told him that Steve was one of the regular visitors even when he was in the cryo. That he never had stooped. Even if he was gone long he would always come back.

Now, he was sitting beside him talking about his latest mission. He never talked about the past, their past. Maybe it must be painful for him. Not knowing if he remembers any of their past, walking on eggshells, as if breathing the wrong way would lead to something worse.

But a part of Bucky wanted him to slip up.

Because maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel something again.

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Wakanda 2018

He still remembers the day vividly. He still remembers the moment something broke inside Steve, the moment when he shattered Steve into pieces

Still sees the way Steve collected himself and left. Feels how he felt like someone pulled his heart out as he looked into Steve's eyes.

Still feels that helplessness in his soul wanting to take back what he said. Remembers how he tried to convince himself that it was for the best.

It was after a mission that lasted two months. But today Steve was unusually quiet. If he was being honest, he was kinda worried.

They had been sitting in his hut for almost an hour now and all he got was a flimsy mission report. They were sitting on the floor side by side with Steve legs drawn up to rest his head on his knees.

“Is good to see you Buck. I know it's hard. And i know you are doing your best, but know that I'll always be there for you. ”

It came out of nowhere.

Bucky had to look away.

Steve had always been stubborn. Always had this unwavering belief in the people he cared about, even when they didn’t deserve it. Especially when they didn’t deserve it. “You’re too much, Steve.”

The words cut through the air like a blade, but he forced himself to say them anyway. “You don’t need to fix me. You can’t fix me. And I can’t be what you need me to be.”

Steve’s breath hitched, his fingers curling against his knee. “That’s not—”

But Bucky was tired. Of the weight of Steve’s expectations, of the past looming between them. Of trying to be the person Steve thought he was, when all Bucky saw in the mirror was a ghost.

“I can’t do this, Steve.”

Steve had blinked, his whole body going rigid like he’d been struck. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re too much.” Bucky turned away, not wanting to see the way Steve’s face crumbled. “You’re always waiting for me to be something I’m not. Someone I can’t be.”

“That’s not true.” Bucky’s laugh was bitter. “It is. I see it, Steve. Every damn time you look at me. You see Bucky Barnes. The guy from Brooklyn, your best friend, your—” He clenched his jaw and looked down. “I don’t know how to be that anymore.” Steve didn’t speak right away. Just stared at him like he was trying to piece together something that had already shattered.
“You want me to leave?” His voice was small. Bucky clenched his jaw.

Say no. Tell him to stay.

Instead, he forced himself to nod.

Bucky hesitated. Part of him wanted to take it back. To fix it, to pull Steve into his arms and tell him that they could figure it out. But he didn’t.

Instead, he forced himself to nod. “Yeah. I do.”

And for the first time, Steve Rogers actually listened.

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Steve didn’t break immediately. No, he lasted long enough to make it through the war against Thanos, to watch Tony snap his fingers and survive. He lasted through the battle, through the dust settling and the world trying to rebuild itself. He returned the stones, and came back with Natasha.

The world moved on. But Steve didn’t. Then he started slipping.

At first, it was just exhaustion. Then it became recklessness.It started small—letting enemies land punches that he should’ve dodged. Let himself take hits that he should’ve avoided. Let injuries pile up without complaint. Then it got worse. He stopped trying to avoid getting hurt. Sam noticed first, then Natasha. She confronted him after a mission where he came back with a deep gash in his side and a dislocated shoulder.

“You trying to get yourself killed, Rogers?” Steve barely looked at her. “It’s just a scratch.” Natasha wasn’t stupid. She grabbed his arm, making him look at her. “This isn’t normal.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

But what could he say? That waking up every morning felt like dragging himself through mud? That sometimes, mid-battle, he thought about just… letting go? That he wasn’t sure what the point of surviving was anymore, when the only person who had ever truly seen him didn’t want him?

When Tony caught wind of it, he put his foot down.

“You’re done, Cap.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

“I’m not watching you throw yourself into death like it’s a damn game of Russian roulette. You’re benched.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “You can’t do that.”

“Actually, I can.” Tony crossed his arms. “I’ve already talked to Fury. You’re on leave indefinitely.”

Steve didn’t argue after that. He just left.

He disappeared into the woods, found a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and became a ghost. He chopped wood, cooked simple meals, existed. Some days, he barely remembered why he was still breathing.

And no one came looking for him.

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December 2024

Bucky hadn’t thought about Steve in years—at least that’s what he told himself. He had tried to move on, to build something that wasn’t tangled in blood and guilt. But there was always something missing, an ache he could never quite drown out.

It was Sam who finally told him the truth.

“He’s gone, man.”

Bucky frowned. “Gone?”

“Not dead. But he might as well be.” Sam’s face was grim. “He took off after Thanos. No one’s seen him in years, maybe except Tony and he checks up on us once a few months or a year.”

A weight settled in Bucky’s chest. He hadn’t known. He thought Steve had—moved on. Found something better. Not this.

That night, he went to Tony.

“I need to find him.”

Tony stared at him for a long time. “And why should I tell you?”

Bucky clenched his fists. “Because I need to fix this.”

Tony sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You break him, you fix him, huh? Yeah, that sounds about right.” He grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled something down. “You fucked him up. Me and Steve had our differences and there are a few things about him got to know over the course of years. One of them was what you were to him. That's the only reason I am giving you this, I owe him that. You fuck this up, you will never see him again. Here take this too. I was gonna mail him the invite like every year.”

Bucky took both. A location. An invite to a Christmas Dinner with the Starks.

The next day, he got on a plane.

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The knock on the door was unexpected. Steve hadn't had a visitor in years, and he sure as hell wasn’t expecting him. When he opened the door, Bucky stood there, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, snow clinging to his hair like he’d been standing there for a while before working up the nerve to knock.

Steve didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

"Hey," Bucky finally said, shifting his weight. "Didn’t think I’d find you this easy."

Steve exhaled sharply, leaning against the door frame. "What do you want,James ?" His voice was flat. Tired.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression at the name, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a small card from his pocket, holding it "Tony’s throwing a Christmas party. Wanted me to give you this."

Steve didn’t take it. Instead, he stared at Bucky for a long moment, like he was waiting for something more. When nothing came, he let out a humorless chuckle. “That’s it? You came all this way just to hand me an invitation?”

James clenched his jaw. He could say it—I needed to see you. I had to make sure you were still alive. I—

Instead, he shrugged. “Figured someone should.”

Steve’s expression didn’t change. “You could’ve mailed it.”

James swallowed. “Yeah. I could’ve.”

“Tell Tony I'll be there like every year."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

The only thing Bucky could think was that Steve was having dinner with Stark every year and was in contact with everyone but him.

Not him. Never him.

Funny how that was exactly what he wanted and now that he had it he hated it.

Then, finally, Steve reached out, took the invitation, and without another word, stepped back and shut the door.

James stood there for a long moment, staring at the wood like it might open again. Like Steve might say something.

He didn’t.

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He didn't know how long he was standing there looking at the door.

He only noticed that the sun was setting when the door opened again.

Steve sighed, ”Come in. It's cold outside."

Bucky didn’t move at first, caught off guard. He had spent so long staring at the closed door, convincing himself that was the end of it, that he almost thought he imagined Steve’s voice. But then Steve stepped back, leaving enough space for him to enter. No warmth in his eyes, no invitation beyond the bare minimum courtesy. Just an expectation—come in, get it over with. Bucky hesitated for only a second before stepping inside. The cabin was simple, rustic, exactly what he’d expected. A fireplace burned low in the corner, the only source of light aside from the dim glow of the setting sun filtering through the windows. The place looked lived-in, but barely. Like Steve existed here, not lived. Steve didn’t look at him as he shut the door, moving past him toward the kitchen.“You want coffee?”

Bucky studied his back. The broad shoulders, the tension in them. “Yeah. Sure.”

Steve nodded once, wordless, as he busied himself with the coffee maker. It wasn’t awkward silence between them—it was something worse. Heavy. Suffocating.

James exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really just gonna shut the door in my face after all these years?”

Steve didn’t turn around. “You showed up, gave me an invite, and left. Figured that was all you came for.”

James frowned. So that’s what we’re doing, huh?

He took a slow breath, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “That was just an excuse.”

That made Steve pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for James to notice.

Then, without looking back, Steve grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and poured the coffee. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”

James swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Bucky didn’t know what he was expecting—maybe some kind of reaction, some flicker of the Steve he used to know. But all he got was silence and the quiet clink of ceramic as Steve set two mugs on the table. “Sit,” Steve said, not looking at him. Bucky hesitated before pulling out a chair. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. He wasn’t cold, not really, but something about the heat grounded him. Steve sat across from him, taking a slow sip of his coffee, expression unreadable. Then, eyes focused on the dark liquid, he said, “You wouldn’t have come all this way just for that. So what is it, James?” Bucky clenched his jaw. Straight to the point, huh?

He huffed a short breath. “I dunno,” he muttered. “Guess I just wanted to see you.”

Steve didn’t react. Just set his mug down carefully, fingers resting lightly around the rim. “You saw me.” His tone was almost flat. Almost dismissive.

Bucky felt something tighten in his chest. “You gonna pretend like you don’t give a damn?” Steve exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know what you want from me, Bucky.”Bucky looked at him—really looked at him. The beard, the tired eyes, the weight in his shoulders like he was carrying something too heavy for too long.

“I just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Steve studied him for a moment before sighing. “James.”

That name again. That damn name. Bucky’s fingers curled around his mug, grip tightening. Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. “You don’t have to check in on me,” he said. “I’m fine.” Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Sure looks like it.” Steve’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything at all.

And for some reason, that silence hurt more than anything else.

Bucky swallowed hard, the weight of it settling deep in his chest.

He had seen Steve Rogers bleed. He had seen him bruised, broken, beaten to the ground—but never, never had he seen Steve stop fighting.

Until now.

The man sitting across from him wasn’t the stubborn punk who always stood back up, who took on the whole damn world if he had to. This was someone who had stopped trying. Someone who let the punches land because maybe—maybe—he thought he deserved them.

And Bucky had done that.

Not Hydra. Not time. Him.

He had hurt Steve so deeply that he hadn’t just lost faith in Bucky—he had lost faith in them.

Bucky’s fingers twitched around the mug, but he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to fix something that had been broken for so long, left out in the cold to splinter and crack.

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped himself. The words sounded hollow even in his own head. Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to push Steve away? Didn’t mean to break him?

Steve just watched him, face unreadable.

Bucky inhaled sharply. “I never wanted this,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Steve didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said, just as quiet. “Neither did I.”

And somehow, that shattered his already broken heart into millions and millions of pieces.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Steve abruptly stood, chair scraping against the wooden floor. Without a word, he grabbed his empty mug and Bucky’s half-full one, carrying them to the sink. The sound of running water filled the silence between them.

“I have to get up early,” Steve said, his voice clipped, controlled. “Need to head into town for groceries.” He didn’t turn around, just kept rinsing out the mugs like it was the most important thing in the world.

Bucky watched him carefully. “Okay.”

Steve finally turned, drying his hands on a rag. He met Bucky’s eyes for only a second before glancing away. “You can leave, or stay. Your choice.”

Bucky frowned at the casual dismissal, the way Steve was pretending this conversation never happened. But instead of pushing, he just nodded. “I’ll stay.”

Steve gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before heading toward his room.

Bucky stared after him.

Bucky watched the door click shut, the finality of it settling like a weight in his chest.The sound of Steve’s bedroom door shutting echoed in the cabin. It was too quiet now, the crackling fire doing nothing to warm the space left in Steve’s absence.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhaled slowly. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He should leave. He should just get up, walk out, and let Steve be. He should just grab his jacket and walk out before they made this harder than it already was.

But he didn’t move.

He stayed.

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Hours had passed. The night had settled around the cabin, quiet and still, the distant sounds of the forest blending into a peaceful hum. But sleep refused to come to the White Wolf.

And then—he heard it.

Faint. Almost swallowed by the silence. Muffled through the thin walls. But unmistakable. The kind of sound you wouldn’t notice unless you knew what to listen for.

A sharp inhale. A shuddered breath.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

He sat there for another moment, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t push. And yet, before he could stop himself, he was already moving. The hallway felt longer than it should have, his boots nearly silent against the worn wooden floor. He hesitated at Steve’s door. For a second, he almost turned around. Almost convinced himself this was a bad idea, that Steve wouldn’t want him there. That this was something Steve needed to go through alone.

But then—

Another sharp, ragged breath.

And that was it. That was all it took.

Bucky turned the handle and stepped inside.

Steve lay facing the wall, body curled in on itself, shoulders stiff and unmoving. Like he was bracing for something, like if he just held himself together tight enough, maybe the grief wouldn’t break through.

Bucky swallowed against the lump in his throat and sat on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight, and Steve tensed immediately. Every muscle locked up, as if he was expecting another fight, another battle. As if Bucky was just another war he had to survive.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his vibranium fingers ghosting over Steve’s hair, uncertain, careful.

Soft.

Steve didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Taking that as permission, Bucky shifted closer, pressing a steady hand against Steve’s back, feeling every rigid breath, every small, uncontrolled tremor.

And then, slowly—Steve started to shake.

At first, it was just a tremor, so faint Bucky almost missed it. But then it grew—his shoulders jerking with the force of it, his fingers twisting into the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

Then, a sound.

Quiet. Choked.

Like Steve was still trying, still fucking trying to hold it together even now.

And Bucky—Bucky hated himself for it.

Because he knew.

Knew he was the reason for this. For the way Steve had stopped fighting, not just on the battlefield but in his own goddamn life.

Every broken breath, every shudder that wracked Steve’s body, felt like a blade twisting deeper into Bucky’s ribs. This wasn’t some wound Hydra had inflicted, or some old war scar Steve had learned to live with.

This was him.

He had done this.

He had pushed Steve away. Had told him it was better that way, that it was for his own good. Had walked away when Steve needed him to stay. And now

Now he was watching Steve fall apart under the weight of it.

Bucky clenched his jaw, shifting closer, his arms coming up to hold Steve as carefully as he could.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, forehead pressing into the back of Steve’s shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry, Stevie.”

Steve let out a broken sound, his body finally giving in, finally letting go.

He turned into Bucky’s hold, fingers clutching onto his arms, his shirt, anything solid, anything real.

Bucky just held on tighter. Because he couldn’t undo this. Couldn’t take back the damage, couldn’t erase the hurt. But he could fix it. Or at least, he could try.

“I got you, Stevie,” he murmured, voice raw, shaking. “I got you.” And this time—

This time, he wasn’t letting go.

Chapter Text

The light filtered through the thin curtains, soft, golden, and uninvited. It was the kind of light that made you squint before you were ready to face the world. Steve blinked awake slowly, adjusting his eyes and trying to piece together where he was and why his chest felt heavy but strangely quiet.

After a moment, his surroundings came into focus. He recognized the familiar creak of the cabin roof, the faint smell of coffee grounds from the night before, and the low crackle of dying embers in the fireplace down the hall.

And then came a weight. Warm. Solid. Real.He turned his head slightly. It was Bucky.He lay there, still asleep. One arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely across the space between them, close enough for Steve to feel the faint brush of Bucky's sleeve against his side. His hair was messy, sticking to his forehead, and his expression was softer than Steve remembered — no tension, no walls, just exhaustion etched into peace.

For a brief, disorienting moment, Steve forgot how to breathe.The memories from last night flickered through his mind like flashes from an old film reel — the quiet conversation, the crackling fire, the unbearable silence, and finally, the way Bucky’s voice broke when he whispered, "I got you, Stevie."

Steve swallowed hard, pressing his lips into a thin line. He had fallen asleep like that, in Bucky’s arms, his body trembling, his chest heaving with all the feelings he had refused to face for years.Now, in the daylight, it felt fragile and impossible.He moved carefully, not wanting to wake him. His body ached, as it always did from old injuries and older regrets, but this morning, something felt different. The kind of ache that came from feeling something again after being numb for too long. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees and head bowed.

Get up, Rogers. Don’t think. Just move.

The floor was cold beneath his feet, and the air was crisp and biting. He found his jacket hanging by the door, shrugged it on, and grabbed his gloves from the hook. The mirror by the entrance caught him on the way out — a quick, accidental glance. He almost didn’t recognize himself.The beard was still there, with a few more gray streaks now. His eyes — once so sharp and full of purpose — looked dull. But there was something new, too. Something uncertain. Maybe it was hope. He ignored it.

Outside, the world lay quiet under a thin layer of snow. The path leading into town was lined with pine trees, their branches heavy with frost. The air smelled like winter — sharp and clean. He started walking. His boots crunched through the snow, the sound steady and rhythmic. The town wasn’t far — a twenty-minute walk if he took his time. He usually went every week or so for supplies, keeping his visits short and his conversations even shorter. But today felt different. Because it wasn’t just him anymore. He reached the outskirts as the sun climbed higher, turning the snow into a thousand glittering shards. The town was small — a handful of shops, a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and sugar, a general store, and a mechanic’s garage that doubled as a gossip hub. Everyone knew everyone, which was why Steve had always kept to himself. Today, he couldn’t.

Mrs. Hargrove, the old woman who ran the flower shop, spotted him first. “Morning, Steve!” she called, waving her gloved hand, her breath fogging in the cold. “You’re up early.” He managed a polite smile and nodded. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Running low on supplies again?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he said. “Got a guest.”

Her eyebrows rose. “A guest? Well, isn’t that a surprise. Anyone I know?”

Steve’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, not quite denial. “Doubt it.”

She chuckled. “Well, good for you. Company’s good for the soul.”

He wasn’t sure he believed that, but he didn’t argue. He just lifted a hand in farewell and kept walking.

The general store sat at the end of the street, its bell jingling when he pushed the door open. The familiar scent of wood polish and dust hit him.

“Morning, Rogers,” called out Peter, the clerk behind the counter — a kid barely out of high school who looked like he’d stepped right out of the forties with his slicked-back hair and too-big cardigan.

“Morning,” Steve replied, reaching for a basket. Peter grinned. “Usual?”

“Mostly. Need a little extra this time.”

Peter tilted his head. “Big appetite?" Steve hesitated for a second before saying, “Guest.” Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Guest, huh? Never thought I’d see the day.”Steve shot him a look — not sharp, but firm  enough to make the kid’s grin falter. “Right. No questions. Got it.”

Steve moved through the aisles with practiced efficiency — coffee, canned goods, bread, soap, extra blankets. He stopped at the small section of fresh produce, hesitating before picking up a bag of apples. Bucky used to steal his apples when they were kids. He said they tasted better when they were Steve’s.

He put two bags in the basket before he could think too hard about it. When he returned to the counter, Peter was still watching him — curious, maybe even concerned.

“You doing okay, Rogers?”

Steve paused mid-reach for his wallet. “Why?”

“Dunno. You just look different today.”

Steve gave a noncommittal hum. “Must be the snow.”

Peter didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press. “That’ll be thirty-two even.”

Steve handed him a few bills, nodding his thanks before heading for the door.

The bell jingled again as he stepped outside. The cold bit at his cheeks, sharper now, but he didn’t mind. The walk back felt longer and heavier — his thoughts chasing him down every turn. Bucky was back at the cabin. After all these years. After all that silence. Steve didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know how to handle the anger that had long burned itself out, or the grief that had settled where it used to be. He only knew that when he’d opened that door last night and seen Bucky standing there — snow in his hair, guilt in his eyes — something inside him had shifted. He didn’t know if it was forgiveness. But it was something.

By the time Steve reached the cabin again, his hands were cold and his thoughts were a mess. He stood at the door for a long moment, groceries in hand, the sound of quiet breathing from inside reminding him that he wasn’t alone anymore.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The fire was out. The bed was still messy.

And Bucky — Bucky was awake, sitting at the table, staring at the mug of coffee Steve hadn’t made yet.

“Morning,” Steve said, setting the bags down.

Bucky looked up slowly, tired eyes meeting his. “Morning, Stevie.”

And for the first time in years, Steve didn’t correct him.